


From Zero to Five (Now Feel Alive)

by Silverstar1



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Dissociation, EOS is a good bro, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone else: We have literally never been this concerned about you in years, Existential Angst, Family Feels, I am offended that isn't already a tag, I'd say a hopeful ending is more accurate, John Needs A Hug, John seriously needs a break, John: I am absolutely fine, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Wow this is dark, Yep Alan took them instead, and he gets one, he gets several hugs actually, hello and welcome to my vent fic, it's only implied but i wanted to tag it just in case, keep yourself safe, remember those bearded dragons Gordon got given that he didn't want?, this is very self indulgent and i apologise, too many space metaphors, uhh time for a fun headcannon, unlike me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 12:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverstar1/pseuds/Silverstar1
Summary: "Alternatively, you could just try therapy.""Do I look like the kind of person who would voluntarily talk about their feelings?!"Or: it's hard to fight an enemy when that enemy is your own mind. John knows this from experience. That doesn't mean he's good at dealing with it - it's all too easy to give up. His family isn't going to let that happen.
Relationships: Alan Tracy & Gordon Tracy & John Tracy & Scott Tracy & Virgil Tracy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	From Zero to Five (Now Feel Alive)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. This is a vent fic, which means a lot of it is just a constant stream of my existential thoughts that probably don't make any sense at all, so I'm sorry. Secondly, I'd like to say that I am in no way trying to romanticise depression because it fricking sucks and it's horrible - I just wanted to make that clear and I apologise in advance if this fic comes across that way.
> 
> This fic deals with some pretty heavy subject matters. Please keep yourself safe and my messages are always open!

_Zero._

Ground zero: a site of devastation, or a starting point for an activity. Surely those two definitions were entirely contradictory – one born from destruction, another inspired by the possibility of creation. Whichever way you looked at it, the point was that there was nothing there. A blank canvas. Emptiness. Which, really, when you got down the roots of the matter, came from the _zero_ part of the noun, because zero, at its heart, had no heart at all. Zero was nothingness. Zero was the absence of something. Zero was a term for when there was nothing to give a term to at all. Zero was the space between less than nothing and more than nothing. Zero was existence without existing. And existence without truly existing – well there lay the true problem.

Living was a tricky thing. Finickity. Troublesome. It was more of a feeling than a state of being. A state of being was existence. It was easy to exist. A little harder to perceive, acknowledge, and register one's own existence – far easier to notice others' existence, however, thanks to the marvellous concept of _sonder_ – but possible all the same. Living, though, now _that_ demanded effort. Not for everyone; some people seemed to glow with life, brimming with the essence of it, wandering around like a star, radiant with light, drawing everyone to them like a beacon, or a lighthouse in a storm of all the universe's gloominess. Others had to try a little harder, but they too were full of life and hope and wonder. They were more like planets – so incredibly complex and beautiful, just not as noticeable at first glance, but when you took a closer look, by god, they were possibly even more wondrous than the stars.

John could file probably everyone he knew into one of these two categories. Stars and planets. Easy. Simple. A nice neat little societal box that society itself had no idea even existed, which made everything easier in a way.

"Which are you?" EOS asked, voice warm with curiosity. She was watching the Earth spin lazily below from the spare drone camera attached to John's sash, draped over the gravity ring that he was currently reclined across. The Earth was glowing. There were little pinpricks of light glittering across the heather-glazed countries below as the sun sank out of view behind the curve of a gently glowing atmosphere. If he lifted a hand, the rays of light would glide through the gaps between his fingers, as though he held life itself in his grasp.

"A planet or a star?" EOS prompted. She was impatient. Perceptive, too. Knew him well enough that if she let this question go now, she would probably never get an answer. Not that she was going to get one now – well, not an easy one, nor the kind she was expecting.

John drummed his fingers against the gravity ring. "Neither," he replied with a sense of finality to it that shut down any further enquiries that EOS was bound to be considering. "There's a third category."

"What's that?"

Zero. A neat way of describing an absence of something, despite the fact that an absence of something meant that there was no something to be described in the first place. He'd summarise that in a metaphorical ribbon entitled _black hole_ , except there was a strange beauty about black holes, about destruction in general, and that beauty could be found in life too, and the third category applied to those who didn't have that sense of life in the first place, so really it wouldn't be accurate to call them black holes.

You know, because accuracy totally came into play here when you were describing people as planets and stars and god knows what else.

"Maybe a meteor," he considered aloud. "Brief moments of life, but mostly wrapped up in the void. Only bright when they're in danger of burning up altogether."

"I disagree," EOS countered. "I'd say a comet."

"They burn bright all the time."

EOS hesitated. Then, softly, more human than could be expected from an AI, she added, "exactly."

The Earth continued spinning. It would for a long, long time from now. Time was fleeting. Your existence was a mere speck, if that. Less than dust. Planets and stars made impressions on the space around them. You knew when they were there, and the universe would remember them when they were gone. Impressions in the black matter. Or something like that. Meteors were as fleeting as human existence. Meteors suited the third category very well.

"You really should sleep, you know." EOS sounded vaguely concerned.

John watched the sun vanish behind the planet. "Why should I worry about that?" he murmured after a moment's silence with just the slow hiss of the oxygen tank for company. "Why should I worry when there's no difference between sleeping and being awake right now."

Ground zero. A site of destruction or a starting point, ergo, an ending or a beginning. Or, alternatively, a tipping point in either direction.

John leant forwards, almost entirely off the gravity ring. Earth was an anchor, but he couldn't help but wonder if he were even tethered. Floating in the void. Separate. A tipping point.

"Can we go back inside now?" EOS's voice was slightly strained. Emotional. _Scared_ , John identified.

"Tank's not even half-empty."

"Yes, but… the meteor's getting a little too close to Earth for comfort."

John cast her camera a glance. Her lights were a pale purple. Fear. A tinge of aqua. Worry. Below, a familiar splodge of green amongst an ocean of blue drifted into view, a bright light amongst a dark expanse, a star in space. Home.

"You promised we wouldn't be out here for long."

"I know."

"John. Please."

He picked his sash up and headed back to the airlock. He wasn't any closer to understanding which way the scales were tipping, where he fitted in amongst the universe.

Time moved on.

He blinked and it was sunrise. He wasn't sure if he'd slept.

Existence was not enough to be alive.

"You're scaring me," EOS whispered.

John pressed his cheek to the glass of the observatory. "I don't mean to."

"I know. But you still are. I don't know how to help you. You're just… here, but not here. It's weird. What's wrong with you?"

"You already know the answer to that."

EOS considered. "Maybe you should stop thinking so much."

"If you figure out a way to get my brain to _shut the hell up_ then I'll be forever indebted to you. I'll even let you beat me at chess."

She laughed at that. A bright sound. Like ringing bells on Christmas. The crispness of snowfall before anyone else has woken.

"Have you ever been like this before?"

John picked at his sleeve. He was in civilian clothes. He wasn't entirely sure if he was officially off-duty, but hey, EOS hadn't warned him otherwise.

"Yes," he admitted, unwilling to reveal that the _yes_ referred to many times. Far too many times. He glanced out the window. Too many stars. Too many planets. Too easy to get lost in the darkness between them.

EOS persevered, because, well, stubbornness was a trait he'd subconsciously added to her coding apparently. "How did you break through it last time?"

He blinked. Slowly. Like the Earth spins. "Huh?"

"You said the meteor can be bright. Not for long, but it can be. How do you get to that point?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, what happened before?"

What happened before was that he felt bad and then he felt better.

There may have been a few steps in between.

"Can you take over duty?"

EOS was very quiet for a moment. Then, gently, "I have done for the past three days."

"Oh. Well then. Thanks."

"Are you going to be okay?"

John yanked the curtain across the window. "I guess we'll see."

* * *

_One. ('Breathe. Take a shower.' ...go away Scott_ _)_

At a tipping point, there is, unfortunately, the risk of falling onto the wrong side, alternatively known as self-destruction, a site of disaster. While this would have been rather ironic given his entire place in the world circled around heading straight into literal disaster zones, it would have been rather unhelpful for a person who was trying to stay alive.

Existence required a few things: food, water, shelter and so on. Life required more. In order to achieve life, you had to first achieve existence, and, according to EOS and the logical side of his own brain, John wasn't being very good at accomplishing even this. The tricky part came with the lack of urgency he felt about the whole thing. Yes, he knew he should eat and sleep and tick off all the human necessities; however, until he felt real enough for these to be genuine problems that applied to him as a person, he wasn't going to set about doing _any of it_. And so the scales tipped a little further in the wrong direction.

It was weird being home. A good weird, although he doubted he could apply _good_ to anything about his existence currently. He didn't tell anyone – didn't need to, not with the alert system and radar and Brains being a nerd combined with Kayo and Scott being paranoid – just stepped into the hanger and into a lift and into a corridor and into his room. It was around four-AM. Not quite. Around. Nearly. They were getting there, anyway. Three-forty-two to be accurate. Far too early for any of the others to be awake.

There was this weird sense of time standing still whenever he stepped into his room, because everything was always just as he'd left it. There was never any dust, so whoever had been on housework duty clearly hadn't forsaken him, but that was it. It didn't feel lived in which, considering his reasons for coming here in the first place, was mildly problematic.

He lay on the bed for a while, just staring at the ceiling. There were glow-in-the-dark-stars up there, in a perfect layout of the constellations beyond. He got up and opened a window. Listened to the tree frogs and cricket song. The waves were lapping against the beach, soft and tender. The pool lights were glowing, rainbows dancing through ripples. There was a gentle rustle of palm fronds in the warm breeze. He watched. Time continued. Light was beginning to blossom in the sky above the rise of the extinct volcano. There were faint clouds out to sea, a rocky blue in colour. He could smell rain in the air. It felt damp and sticky, a little cooler as the breeze picked up. The waves were choppier, white horses tossing their heads around the cliffs.

John had never felt so detached from it all. Like he was in a cinema, watching it on screen. Or recalling memories. Not a part of this moment, not really. Not _real_. The thought was like an adrenaline shot and for the first time in almost a week, emotion ignited, not just in his chest, but a full-body panic experience, tingling in his fingertips so that he had to shake his hands out.

He gripped the rungs of the balcony rail and squeezed. The metal was cold against his skin.

"Real."

He ground his knuckles into his eyes. Beyond the fading terror, there was nothing. Just emptiness.

The panic returned with a vengeance.

He scrambled to his feet, socks slipping on the tiles, and flat-out ran, cursing the fact that he had one of the only rooms without an en-suite. Muscle memory kicked in, and it was still too early to run into anyone else, so he made it to the bathroom without a hitch. He couldn't recall locking the door. It didn't matter. Or maybe it did. Did anything? Or did _everything_?

The room quickly filled with steam. He should have turned the light on to activate the extractor fan, or perhaps opened a window but no, instead he'd somehow created a sauna. Still. That was a problem for future him. The shower was running at full pelt, a waterfall of hot water. He tripped over his own feet crawling in and knocked his elbow against the wall. There was a slash of pain from his funny bone because wow, this day just _had_ to get better like that, didn't it?

There was no one around, but he needed to hear a voice, even if it was his own. So.

"Ow. Fuck."

Excellent.

He shuffled back until he hit the wall, then drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on top. The water pounded against his shoulders and neck. It was hot. Really hot. He inhaled steam and tried not to cough. But this was still better than sitting in his room, because at least here he could _feel_ something. He toed each sock off with the opposite foot. There was a bottle of shower gel to his left. He poured a little into his hand just to test the smell. It was a strong mint. He sneezed. His hair was plastered to his face and he scraped it out of his eyes.

There was something strange about the passing of time. It was either a heartbeat too quick to register or the slowest of processes in the universe. Time was a lie. Or rather the human perception of time was a lie. A linear timeline was a lie. Take right now for example, when the drumming of water had faded to a background thunderstorm that seemed like it had lasted hours, while it felt like a mere second since he'd climbed in. Which was the truth?

What the hell was he thinking about again?

If time wasn't linear, then was every moment fundamentally pointless, or extraordinarily important?

A star or a planet or a meteor?

Someone knocked on the door. John glared at it suspiciously.

"You've been in there for over an hour… are you okay?"

An _hour_? Also, new problem because ah, right; _Virgil_. "Fine," John called back, which was probably the worst thing he could have said, because not only was it the least convincing word in the entire dictionary, but his voice was shot to hell and back.

True to form, Virgil was not convinced. "Uh huh. Look, are you decent or…?"

"Yes?" John didn't know why he phrased it like a question. He was literally sitting here in drenched jeans and an equally soaked hoodie.

Apparently he definitely _hadn't_ locked the door because Virgil barged straight through. Perhaps this was a little harsh. He was gentle about it; pushed the door to with one foot and closed it again with the other, soft enough that the latch clicking was drowned out by the shower. He was wearing those ridiculous Cookie Monster PJs and those godforsaken fluffy socks that looked like he'd stamped on a couple of guinea pigs. The socks were removed and carefully placed on the shelf above the sink, then he was stepping into the tub and kicking at John's feet until John shuffled back a little so that there was room for both of them. Virgil curled up as small as possible. It was a tight squeeze.

John stared at him. "What are you doing?"

"Joining you." Virgil offered a bright smile. "Obviously."

"Yes, I got that part, but _why_?"

Virgil's smile dimmed. "Because I'm worried about you."

"You know most people would just ask _are you okay_ and carry on with their lives. They wouldn't sit in the shower getting their clothes soaked for no reason."

"Well, I'm not most people." Virgil nodded to the shower controls. "I'm glad you brought up the entire sitting in the shower fully-clothed thing though, because I was going to ask whether I could turn that off yet?"

John was struck with the realisation that while the shower may have started out hot, it was now _frickin' freezing._ There were goose bumps all down his arms. He nodded absently, a little too focussed on the tiny tremors skittering across his hands and the way he was wracked with full-body shivers. The water shut off and it was suddenly very quiet. He could hear rain outside. God, he was _cold_. He curled his hands into claws, carving his nails into his jeans below his knees.

"Hey." Virgil leant forwards, all wide-eyes and openly concerned. His hair was wet, and it was sticking on end. He reached out, slowly, until he was gently prying John's hands away from his jeans and oh, right, that was probably a good thing, because his nails were bleeding.

John took a deep breath. "This isn't a big deal, by the way. Don't make it into a thing. I'm okay. You don't need to worry and get others involved or anything."

By others, it was fairly obvious he only meant two people, because Alan and Gordon were clearly off the table from the get-go, and from those remaining two people, he mostly meant Scott, because Grandma was nowhere near as bad on the fussing side of things whereas Scott somehow managed to encompass a panicked mother-hen combined with an overprotective father, and the result was _not_ pretty. Plus, you know, John may or may not have already been through this scenario once before with his elder brother and Scott was going to be grade-A _pissed_ when he found out that John hadn't called the second things had started getting bad… you know, like he'd _promised_ to do.

Virgil made a strange little growling noise deep in his throat. "Alright," he said in a forcibly calm voice. "Alright, okay, just… level with me here, for a minute, please? If you walked in on me sitting fully clothed in a freezing shower having been almost completely unresponsive for the past hour, would you be concerned?"

John closed his mouth, counterargument dying before he'd even voiced it. "That's a completely different situation."

"How?"

"Because you're…" John waved a hand vaguely. "You," he finished lamely. "If you were so bad that you reverted to this without telling anyone, then yeah, it would be cause for concern." There was water trickling down his face and he shivered again. "I know this looks bad, but…"

Virgil wilted forwards with a sigh. "You can't even finish your own point, so forgive me for not being convinced. What were you trying to accomplish here?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you sit fully-clothed in the shower until the hot water ran out?"

John suddenly felt incredibly small under his brother's searching gaze. He fixed his sights on the vivid blue of those Cookie Monster PJs. "I don't know." He was barely whispering as he added, very softly, because it was early and still a little too dark for Virgil to really see his face and that made this a safe space, "maybe I wanted to feel human."

Virgil's hand on his shoulder tightened. "And that right there? That is why I'm concerned."

"I know." Somehow he suspected saying _EOS is worried too_ wouldn't help matters.

"If we take this slowly, a small step at a time, can you work with me?"

John rubbed water away from his nose. His eyes were stinging. He blamed the shower gel. Clearly he was allergic. "Yes."

Virgil gave him an encouraging smile. "Can we get out of the shower?"

"Yeah. That's… uh…" John tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Yeah," he repeated quietly. "We can do that."

He ended up in Virgil's room because somehow his brother had gained mind-reading abilities over the past two months since John had last been home and therefore knew that John wasn't too keen on the idea of returning to his own time-stopping bedroom. Either that or John had told him without realising. It was probably the latter. Still. Virgil didn't seem angry that John was dripping water all over the carpet, just threw him a warm towel straight outta the dryer.

"When did you last eat?"

John paused half-way through vigorously rubbing his hair dry like a poodle. "Uh…"

Virgil, leant against the doorway, shot him a disapproving stare. "If you have to think about it, then it's been too long." He straightened up, thinking for a moment. "I'm making toast and eggs. Do you want to join us in the kitchen, or I can come back and we'll eat in here? Fair warning – Gordon's probably going to be up and around in about twenty minutes."

John let the towel fall around his shoulders as he considered. "Here?"

Virgil gave an easy nod. "Sure."

John slid his hands into the pockets of his dry jeans awkwardly. "Hey, Virg?" Virgil paused in the doorway. "Uh… just us… or?"

Virgil read between the lines. The mind-reader possibility was looking more likely by the minute. "Just us," he confirmed. "Although… Johnny, you know Scott's not gonna be mad, right?"

"Mad? No. Disappointed? Now that's more likely."

Virgil frowned. "I'm not even going to bother _trying_ to unpack all that, but the bottom line is that you're wrong. We notice when you're not doing so good, you know? We _are_ paying attention and we do worry, no matter how much good an act you put on." He glanced out into the hallway to check for any eavesdroppers and continued, "and for the record? I think the only time he'd be disappointed in you is if you literally _murdered_ someone and even then he'd still try to fight your corner." He sighed. "Scott's not Dad. He tries to be, but he's not, and even if he doesn't see it, the truth is that that's a good thing."

John stared obstinately at his socks. He was too sleep-deprived for this conversation. "Fine. Tell him. I don't mind."

Virgil shook his head. "If you still want me to tell him after breakfast, then I will, but right now you're not in the right place to be making a decision about anything." He stepped out into the hallway. "I'll be back in ten. Oh, and don't try opening the wardrobe. Gordon doesn't think I know about the paint bomb he's rigged up in there."

John migrated to the bed for a while. Virgil, he decided, as if he hadn't considered this before, was definitely a planet person. He wasn't one for the spotlight like Gordon was, but he was practically overflowing with life and empathy. After all, not many people would be prepared to sit in a freezing cold shower in their pyjamas with their brother at six in the morning. Planets were like that – they gave freely, gave too much really, were easily hurt, but continued to give all the same, no matter the consequences. No wonder Virgil hadn't even hesitated for a second when Dad had first suggested International Rescue. God knew John had hesitated, for _months_.

At some point he'd fallen asleep. When he woke up, Scott was sitting on the end of his bed like some sort of strange sleep paralysis demon.

"Before you ask, no, Virgil didn't tell me." John sat up in time for a hoodie to smack him in the face. Scott shrugged. "You're still shivering, I'm ninety-percent sure you don't want to go back in your room, and you're too tall for Vee's stuff to fit you. So put that on, warm up a bit, and eat something."

"Then what?"

Scott gave him a long look. "Then we can do whatever you want."

"What if I just want to sleep all day?"

"Eh." Scott shuffled a little further onto the bed and propped himself up against the wall. "Then that's what we'll do. I could do with a duvet day."

"Seriously?" John tugged at a hoodie string. "What if we get a callout?"

Scott propped an elbow on his knee and picked up a cushion to fiddle with. "If we get a callout, Gordon and Alan can take it." He caught John's eye and stated firmly, leaving no room for argument or misinterpretation, "I have a higher priority right now."

* * *

_Two ('Eat something, jeez dude. Also get some sleep.' ...okay, Virg, stop nagging)_

So. Breakfast took a little while longer because Gordon woke up and demanded pancakes like the weird gremlin he was, and Alan had a sixth sense for sugar so launched himself from bed with all the eagerness of a fox let loose in McDonalds, but eventually Virgil made it back to the room. He double-took when he spotted Scott lounging across the end of the bed, invested in the first book he'd found on the shelf that had turned out to be surprisingly good.

John, who'd been dozing for most of the wait, yawned, and registered the confused look Virgil was directing at him. "Oh right." He poked Scott's shoulder with one socked foot, earning a protesting whine. "Scott's doing his creepy psychic thing again."

Scott lowered his book, intrigued. "What's my creepy psychic thing?"

"You somehow know when any of us is upset or hurt in any way, no matter where we are," Virgil explained, kicking the door shut. "Gordon said you had to be psychic and it stuck."

"Does everyone say I'm a creepy psychic?"

"Anyone who actually knows you?" Virgil set the plates down on the desk. "Yep."

"Huh." Scott didn't seem displeased. His attention was now focussed on the bacon that John definitely didn't remember asking for. "Fair enough."

There was some shuffling in order to fit them all on the bed, and by shuffling John meant that he sat up and curled into the corner between the pillows and wall and just watched as his brothers battled it out. Scott, unsurprisingly, won, and lounged across the full length of the bed looking very smug as Virgil squeezed himself on the edge with a glower to rival one of Alan's temper tantrums.

"You don't get any," Virgil grumbled as Scott made a mad grab for one of the plates. "I don't like you."

"I call bullshit, now gimme."

"Ah yes, very mature. A wonderful example to be setting." Virgil kicked Scott's hands away as he handed a plate to John.

Scott wasn't concerned. This was fair – the longest Virgil had ever held a grudge was half-an-hour during Middle School. "The only person I need to set an example for is Alan and I don't see him here."

Virgil slid him a plate with a sigh. "Does Gordon not count?"

"Gordon's a lost cause."

Virgil nodded gravely. "That's a good point."

The conversation was warm background noise, comforting in both its familiarity and the sheer humanness of it all. The hiss of oxygen and stirring of tanks and gentle hum of electricity in an artificial environment and the cold vacuum of space in general could shift from fascinating to paralysing in a second, too much and too little all at once. Too quiet yet too loud. Too much yet not enough. Life was made up of contradictory conundrums, that was what John was getting at, and half the time this was a good thing, but the other half? Not so good.

Something that _was_ good? This food. Well. Mostly. What he could taste of it, at least. He had to really focus on what he was eating, otherwise he was just robotically stabbing at the plate and it all faded to background molecules, as void of taste as damp cardboard. Texture helped. He really didn't want the bacon though. Luckily, Scott was a black hole who ate as quickly as a supersonic jet breaking the sound barrier, so John shovelled the bacon onto his brother's plate and watched as it vanished in a matter of seconds with absolutely zero questions asked.

Unfortunately, Virgil was as observant as Kayo, and had been watching like a hawk, so promptly dropped another slice of toast onto John's plate.

John glared at him. "Seriously?"

"Quit giving your food to Scott. _You're_ supposed to be the one eating it."

Scott double-took, staring down at his plate as though it had gained magical future-predicting properties. "When did that happen? And hey, wait, no." He flicked John's shoulder. "Bad! Don't do that!"

John hissed at him. Scott, thoroughly unimpressed, simply shook his head, tried to hide his smile, and returned to inhaling his breakfast. One of these days he was going to choke and have to relearn the magical art of actually _chewing_.

Virgil slid off the bed to stretch across the floor like some sort of abnormal octopus, grimacing as his back clicked. "This what you've done to me," he complained to Scott. "This is all your fault. If you'd let me sit in the middle of the bed rather than all squashed up at the end…"

Scott threw a cushion at him. "Suffer."

Virgil, still sprawled across the carpet, flipped him off. Scott snorted. John observed these antics, relieved at the faint warmth of affection rekindling in the gaping void in his chest where his emotions were supposed to live. He held up his empty plate for Virgil's inspection.

"Satisfied?"

Virgil snatched it from his grasp. "Not really, but more so than before, yes." He stacked the cutlery on top and prised the door open with his elbow. "Any requests?"

"Waffles," Scott announced.

Virgil ignored him. "John?"

Oh, right, yes, that was him. John took a moment to recover his voice from wherever it had crept off to. "I'm good."

"Waffles," Scott repeated. Virgil shut the door. Scott raised his voice. "Waffles, Virg!"

John slid down the wall to curl up around the pillows. There was a super fluffy rainbow one that was a complete monstrosity, but it was soft and vaguely distracting, so he pulled it to his chest and buried his face in the strands of faux fur until his entire world was taken up with blues and greens and yellows and reds. He still felt like he was drifting. Untethered.

A hand gripped his ankle and squeezed. "Humour me for a second," Scott said quietly. "Look up and tell me five things you can see."

John lifted his face from the cushion. "I'm not having an anxiety attack."

"I know, but that doesn't mean that you don't need grounding."

Scott held his gaze a little longer. John threw himself onto his back with a sigh. "Paint on the ceiling… does Virgil even know that's there?"

"No," Scott answered. "Carry on."

"This psychedelic tragedy." John lifted the cushion. Scott grimaced. "Do I have to keep doing this?"

Scott didn't answer. Instead he settled down amongst the cushions and rolled onto his back so that they were side by side. "Do you want to talk?"

"I don't know." Shit. John really _didn't_ know. He tugged at the hoodie drawstring again. It was too quiet. Too still. "Can you…"

"Can I…?"

John swallowed his words. "Forget it."

"You _do_ know who you're talking to, right?"

John exhaled. Counted the heartbeats between the next breath. Scott was tugging at the loose threads of one of the pillows. Their shoulders were brushing.

Real or not real?

Important or not important?

Important, John decided. Having said that, he was entirely biased – anything in relation to his family was important. If they were just sitting in a circle not speaking, he'd probably still note it down as important. Also, Scott was totally a star and stars were important no matter how you looked at them.

"Everything's sort of…" John made a vague gesture with his hands. He wasn't even sure himself what he was trying to say. Scott let the pillow fall to the floor and gave him his full attention. "Jumbled," John continued. "So nothing's… I can't make sense of it, so it doesn't feel real. Does that… do you get that? I don't know. I just feel wrong. Again." He clawed a hand through his hair and tugged. "Oh, fuck me, it's happening _again_."

"Okay, let's just…" Scott caught his wrist and tugged his hand down. John didn't pull away. "Let's take a step back for a moment. This, right now, this feeling? It's temporary. You know this. It sucks right now, but it's temporary. And you know that I get what you're going through, so I'm not bullshitting you."

John tightened his grip on the cushion. "I know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I want it to stop." Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble to the surface. "I also want to sleep, but if I do that then I don't know when I've woken up. It's all the same."

Scott was quiet for a moment. There was rain tapping against the window. In the distance, there was a familiar roar of engines. Well, at least that explained where Virgil had got to.

The words were evaporating again.

Until you hit zero.

Zero words left.

"I don't want to talk anymore." Did he sound like a five-year-old? Possibly.

Scott simply nodded. "Okay. I have a question – is it easier to identify reality when there's someone else there? Just… before you shoot me down, give me a chance to explain?"

John closed his eyes. "You don't need to," he murmured. "I get it."

"And?"

"And yes." He reached out and caught Scott's sleeve. "Stay."

* * *

_Three ('You're not a vampire, go sit in the sun for a bit' ...sure, Alan)._

Sleeping most of the day wasn't a pleasant experience, mainly because he awoke feeling disorientated (and also craving ice cream for some reason?). The room came back into focus slowly. The lights were low. It was early sunset outside, and the carpet was flooded with golden rays. The rain had evaporated throughout the day leaving glimpses of a clear sky through the gently flapping curtains. There was the sound of waves splashing against the beach, louder, proof that it was high tide. John stretched out his legs and remained where he was, content to just listen for a little while.

His pillow had different plans. John was not very happy about this. He told said pillow as much.

"John, I literally can't feel my legs. I haven't moved in about six hours."

John lifted his head from Scott's shoulder to stare at his brother dubiously. "That sounds like a you problem. Deal with it."

Scott lifted his phone higher with a sigh but returned to scrolling through his news feed without any further complaint. John hadn't really been expecting this, but hey, alright, he'd take it. He tugged the hoodie sleeves further down over his wrists (because dammit he got cold hands alright?) and settled back into the cosy nest amongst Virgil's sea of blankets and cushions, content to sleep for a little longer, because here was okay. Here was warmth and fading gold, and the scent of fabric conditioner with a hint of aviation fuel, and Scott right next to him, as real and as full of life as the brightest star. Maybe this was all playing out on a big cinema screen in someone else's head, but it didn't matter too much in this immediate moment. John trusted Scott to be real and so he trusted himself to fall asleep and not get lost in the space between stars and planets.

The point was that this was not zero. This was more than zero. This was the scales tipping towards living rather than a subpar existence. This was feeling more than nothing.

So he slept a little longer. It was that half-aware, drifting on the edge of wonderland, sort of sleep, where the world around was vaguely acknowledged, but was mostly just a comforting blur. He was aware of Thunderbird Two returning from the distant thrum of engines, and of hushed voices as Virgil stuck his head round the door to check in before retreating back to the family bathroom rather than his own en-suite to avoid making too much noise.

He woke again as the sun tracked into the waves to leave a soft dusk in its wake, turning everything pale lilac and sugar-sweet with the scent of jasmine blossoms and bird song. Scott was asleep, phone abandoned half-way down the duvet. John elbowed him in the ribs because he was a nice brother like that, but also because he knew that if he let Scott rest now then he'd fall into a deep sleep which would involve him missing dinner and rendering Virgil bed-less for the next five hours.

Scott yawned and blinked blearily at him for a couple of moments, still not fully conscious. "Ow."

"Oh _please_ , as if that hurt."

"You're scrawny. You've got pointy elbows. Like an elf."

John wasn't sure what elves had to do with anything but hey, each to their own. Scotty was a weird guy. "I'm hungry," he announced, surprised to find that he actually _was_. "Do we have ice cream?"

Scott considered. "We have sorbet."

"What kind?"

"Lemon. I think."

"That'll do."

Scott hauled himself to his feet with a groan. "Just a suggestion, but why don't you sit by the pool for a bit? Get some sun."

"Is there any left?"

"A little. Sunset's not done quite yet."

John tugged his hood up over his head. "Yeah," he agreed. "Alright then. Only if you bring me the sorbet."

Scott grinned. "Deal."

Sunset was a bit like the ground zero definition – a contradiction. Set suggested it was an ending, but it was the dawning of night, a new cycle, so surely there could be no new beginning with the extinguishing of the previous day. Or, in other words, John was thinking too much and didn't know how to stop, but he felt a little more grounded and a little more human, so he didn't mind too much.

The tiles were still warm with the day's heat. He sat on the pool edge and rolled up his jeans to dunk his feet in the water. Playful ripples chased away to the opposite side, reflecting tiny rainbows across the marble floor. Out to sea, the sun was an amber eye, slowly closing to give the moon a chance to take centre stage. John closed his eyes and felt the warmth on his skin, trailing one hand through the water.

Footsteps pattered to a halt. A small weight was deposited on his shoulder. John opened one eye to discover there was now a bearded dragon clinging to his hoodie. He ran a hand down the tiny creature's back and tried to hide his smile as it closed its eyes and revelled in the touch.

"Aw, he likes you," Alan announced, collapsing into a heap at John's side, the second dragon pillowed in his lap.

John tilted his head to glimpse the dragon a little better. "Does he? Does he _really_?"

"Yes!" Alan crossed his legs so that the second dragon could crawl onto his knee and bask in the sunlight. He leant back, resting his weight on his hands, inspecting the sunset. "I still don't get why Gordon doesn't like them."

John made a vague noise of agreement. The bearded dragon crawled a little higher up his shoulder to curl around his neck, tail looped around the drawstring of his hoodie for balance. It was a show of sheer trust and he felt oddly like crying. Instead he petted its head and returned his sights to the sunset. Alan yawned, set his second dragon onto John's free shoulder, and rolled over to rest his head in John's lap.

John looked at down him, vaguely amused, but mostly just warm from sun and affection. "Long day?"

Alan nodded, closing his eyes. "Hmm. Busy day."

"Did it go okay?"

"Uh huh." Alan patted blindly at John's knee. "You?"

John caught Scott's eye where his elder brother was hovering in the sliding doors. "It got better."

Alan gave another yawn. "That's good," he mumbled, half-asleep. John watched him with a fond grin, running a hand through his hair. Scott settled down at his side and plucked a bearded dragon off John's hood to place it on Alan's back.

"Sorbet?" he offered, setting the carton down between them and handing John a spoon.

Alan lifted his head, blinking sleepily. "There's sorbet?"

"No," Scott told him. "You're dreaming. There's no sorbet. Go back to sleep."

"Oh," Alan said, a little sadly, but obediently slid back down to curl up across John's lap. The bearded dragon crawled down his shirt to settle against his chest.

John clapped a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. "Do you think if you wrote gullible on the ceiling…?"

"Yep." Scott nodded, equally amused. "One-hundred-percent." He cracked the lid off the sorbet and dug his spoon in. "But if we let him in on this, he'll eat the whole carton."

John took his own spoonful. "This is good sorbet."

Scott raised a brow. "Do you _really_ want to make small talk?"

"Not really."

"Then let's just eat the sorbet and watch the sunset. No catch. Just chillin'."

"There's always a catch."

"Do you _want_ a catch?" Scott stole another spoonful of sorbet. "Alright then, here's the catch – you've got to help with the washing up later."

John watched the first stars creep out. "That's barely a catch," he whispered.

"It doesn't need to be." Scott offered him the tub. "More sorbet?"

There was a soft flash of green as the sun vanished below the horizon.

John let Scott hand him the sorbet. "Thanks."

* * *

_Four ('If you're feeling up to it, move around, jump above the stars and dive beyond the sea' ...Gordon, I swear to god...)_

At some point, Scott managed to coax Alan into moving from the patio to a sofa, taking both bearded dragons with him. There were the sounds of pots and pans from the kitchen and then the smells of pasta and rich sauce and garlic bread started drifting from the open windows. John sat out on the patio a while longer, flat on his back, staring up at the sky as the colours filtered from a peach gradient to a wash of silver and midnight.

Gordon wandered out and dove into the pool without a word. John rolled onto his side to watch, because Gordon in the water was genuinely a sight to behold. He swam like a dolphin, like he belonged there. It was easy to see he had a gold medal under his belt. He resurfaced at the poolside as the lights flickered into action. A tree frog chirped. Water sloshed across the tiles. John looked at his brother expectantly.

Gordon stared back, equally expectant. "Get in."

"What? No."

Gordon rolled his eyes and made to splash him. John jolted back with a protesting yelp. Virgil, sketching on his balcony, leant over the rail to shout, "Gordon, quit bugging him!"

Gordon dragged himself out of the pool in order to simultaneously flip Virgil off and screech at the top of his lungs, "shut up!" He slid back into the water and returned his attention to John. "So? I'm not even going to make you swim. Just get in for a bit. It'll help."

John looked at the pool and then back at Gordon's expectant face. "No."

"Okay, well either you get in voluntarily or I push you in." Gordon pushed away from the poolside with one foot, drifting amongst the gentle waves carved out by the breeze. He was perfectly at ease, head tipped back, eyes half-closed. "The choice is yours," he prompted, trailing a hand through the water. His nails were painted with chipped baby blue varnish and glittered in the pool-lights. These little details were important because without the little details there couldn't be the big details, and what was reality other than a series of puzzle pieces slotted together in the hopes that no one would notice the mismatched edges?

John stripped off his hoodie and jeans. A mosquito buzzed around his ear and he smacked it away, relieved at the faint buzz of irritation in his veins, because negative emotions were better than numbness. It was like identifying nerve damage on rescues – pain was often a good a sign.

Virgil was watching them over the top of his sketchpad. He tilted his head, a glass of something fruity and alcoholic and stereotype-defying in his hand, a question on his face. A planet questioning the meteor if the star was too bright, too much, too close.

But Gordon wasn't pushing. He was just floating and waiting. He was going to let John do this on his own terms, which was probably the most John could ask of his brother.

Virgil was still watching.

John lifted a hand. "You should draw Gordon as an otter," he called up.

Virgil squinted. "Did the sun go to your head?"

"No, I like it." Gordon bobbed over to the poolside, eyes gleaming, every atom a star. "Otters are cool," he commented, propping himself up on one elbow and scenting the air for garlic bread like a half-starved dog. "Make me look awesome though," he added as an afterthought.

"You want me to make you into an _awesome otter_ ," Virgil repeated slowly. He looked to John. "Why are you like this?" He turned his gaze to Gordon. "Same question goes to you."

Gordon tossed his head back and cackled. It was mildly disturbing. "I'm a human trashcan and Johnny-boy's depressed," he quipped, with a loose shrug. "You've gotta take the wins when you find them. Or whatever. Just draw me as an otter, dude, it'll make Kayo laugh. Space-case, you comin' in or what?"

John kicked some water at him. Gordon dived under and glided into the indigo depths of the slope beneath the diving-board. It was every bit as terrifying as it was impressive how long he could hold his breath. John didn't need to look up to know that Virgil was watching and counting the seconds because Gordon had a habit of finding danger even in the safest of places.

It was cool in the pool. Not really, not if John checked a thermometer, but compared with the post-dusk haze of warm air and the heat radiating from the fire-pit on the patio, it was a sharp shock to his system. He inhaled sharply. Fire to ice. Like a lightning strike. Such a fierce contrast that it was impossible to fake, which meant it had to be real, which meant that if he was experiencing it, he also had to be real.

Huh. This meteor was a little brighter. Or maybe that was just the glow of the planets and the suns it was flying past. Their own perfectly imperfect solar system.

Gordon resurfaced with a gasp and an exhilarated laugh. " _Du_ -de. How long was that?"

"Too long," Virgil grumbled from the balcony. He tilted his sketchpad a little. "My anxiety hates you. You made me draw you with cat ears." He frowned. "Otters definitely don't have cat ears." He pushed himself up from his chair with a sigh and toed his balcony door open. "I need another drink."

"Can you grab me a beer?" Gordon called after him. Virgil showed no signs of having heard him. Gordon sunk back under the water, muttering. John mentally started counting the seconds again. Gordon was a hazard unto himself – you could never be too careful.

There was something about the way the moonlight reflected off the water at the opposite end of the pool. It was a sheet of silk, utterly unbroken, rivalled only by the ocean to their right. For a second, John entertained the idea of heading down to the bay. But the bay involved steps and while he was here, rooted in reality in this immediate moment, the numbness, the void, the cold, hard, undeniable _zero_ -ness of plain existence without any of the turkey trimmings was still there. He could feel it, just brimming under the surface. If he tipped back, pushed a little too hard, took this brief respite for granted, then it would swallow him up as easily as the darkness of space could. No up or down or right or wrong, just _being_.

He set off at an easy pace. It was hard to swim in a t-shirt, but he couldn't be bothered to strip down any further and besides, Grandma had a habit of appearing and attempting to force-feed him whenever he took his shirt off, which was ridiculous because how was he to blame that he got the fastest metabolism as well as the height gene – he couldn't help being a human beanpole, get off his case. Or, in other words, being entertained by other thoughts – Grandma was a star with planet tendencies, and that made her unpredictable.

He swam a few more lengths. His muscles were aching. He'd spent too long in zero-gee, skipped too many gym sessions. When time was irrelevant, it was hard to keep track of schedules, and besides, please review the entire _human necessities don't apply to him because he may not be a real person and if he is then oh weird, but no feelings so…what_? That was it. That was the issue. Just… what?

There was no issue.

There was just his brain and its general shittiness.

So really there was issue in the fact that there was no issue. A bit like how there was a word to describe the absence of being – zero. Or death. Or… fuck.

John chose this moment to forget he was in a swimming-pool and promptly choked on a lungful of chlorinated water. Gordon resurfaced by his side as he was coughing half a pool onto the patio tiles, struggling to hold his own body mass out of the water and screw gravity but _thank you_ _gravity_ all at once, because water in space just _stayed put_ and if this had happened in zero-gee he would totally be _dead_ right now and was that scary or was it just facts and the two weren't inherently separate, but they weren't necessarily interlinked either and he couldn't get the goddam _air_ into his lungs.

"Hey." Gordon's hand landed heavily on his back, a good ole whack between the shoulder blades. John finally caught his breath and dragged himself out of the pool, retreating to the sun-lounger where he stole Gordon's waiting towel. Gordon followed him, eyes wide and face openly concerned. He'd always worn his emotions on his sleeve. Lucky bugger – John would _pay_ to have emotions as a constant force like that.

"Shit," John finally choked out. It sounded oddly like a sob. Sort of twisted and pained.

Gordon winced. Empathetic little shit. "Sorry. I should've kept a closer eye on you."

"I'm not a kid," John snapped, bristling. "I don't need babysitting, least of all by you."

"I know, and that's not what I'm trying to say." Gordon lifted his hands in surrender, an apologetic tone turning his words soft. "I didn't mean to sound patronising."

John let the towel fall to his shoulders. "What _did_ you mean?" he asked tiredly.

Gordon turned his gaze on the pool, drumming his heels against the tiles with nervous energy. He was searching for the right words, turning them over in his head. Coming from the guy who tended to speak first and think later, it was a touching gesture.

"Remember that time Alan sprained his ankle? We all kept a closer eye on him, not because we thought he was incapable of being a functioning human… although… no, no, back to my point – we looked out for him because he was hurt. That's what I was trying to say." His shoulders slumped. "You're hurting. It's harder to spot because it's not physical, but I'm still gonna watch out for you because you're not on top form right now and it sucks. Believe me, I get it. I've been there." He ran a hand through his hair. His nails caught the light. "The last thing I wanted to do was patronise you."

John studied him for a moment. Serious Gordon was weird. Then again, their entire friendship was weird. They couldn't stand each other as kids. John could vividly remember asking Mom if she could take Gordon back to the hospital and exchange him for another sibling, one that was less annoying. He wondered at what point they'd shifted into the easy relationship they shared today.

"Do you ever want to physically crawl out of your body and just float somewhere where everything feels better?" Well. That definitely hadn't been what he'd wanted to say.

Gordon considered. "Yeah, to an extent." He worried the cut across his knuckle from a mishap on that morning's rescue. "I mean… well. I… you know how I got after my accident. That level of low. And god yeah, I was determined to get back on my feet, but I had all these medical asshats telling me that I might never walk again and… so yeah. I get that." He side-eyed John. "You gonna be okay?"

John stared at the moon, tracing the craters, imaging he could see the splashes of purple and silver where the lunar hotels were under construction. "Being human sucks," he muttered.

Gordon gave a surprised bark of laughter. "Sometimes it's pretty cool too."

"If you do your creepy double-jointed thing with your fingers…" John cringed. "Yep, there you go… Jesus, Gords. I am literally begging you to stop. Ew, ew… _quit it_." He shook his head as Gordon sniggered. "Unbelievable."

Gordon stole the towel back, still smiling. "Eh. You love me really." He rose onto his toes to glimpse people flitting about the kitchen. "Hungry?"

John thought about it. There was something comforting about human needs, a reminder that he was a living, breathing, physical being, not just a flash of creation in an endless universe. Or maybe he was both.

"Oi." Gordon reached over and flicked him square in the forehead. "Where'd you go?"

"Space," John replied.

Gordon sighed dramatically. "I should have known. C'mon nerd, let's go steal the garlic bread away from Alan." He hesitated, turning back for a second. "Just out of interest, did the swim help?" He grinned. "Before the whole near-drowning incident, obviously."

John considered. There was an ache to his muscles that wasn't ebbing away any time soon, but there was a realness to it, a sense of achievement. He felt properly hungry for the first time in ages. His skin was still damp with pool water, and in the face of the breeze off the sea, he was shivering in the chill. He felt very human. No meteors to be found here right now, no-thank-you-sir.

"Yes," he agreed simply.

Gordon's smile rivalled the light of the sun. "Awesome-sauce."

* * *

_Five (Spend some time with other humans. No talking necessary. Just exist in their company... I get it now.)_

The problem with everything in this universe is that nothing is permanent. All is temporary. This could be seen as a positive thing – sadness is only fleeting when faced with a human lifetime – but now it just served as a reminder that loss was inherent, written into the very fabric of reality. These people here, his family, and his friends, both those on the island and those afar – they were stars and planets but at the end of the day _everything came from dust and everything would return to dust._

It was a humbling thought. A terrifying one. John couldn't shake it, and it was beginning, to quote Alan, _to freak him out_.

The problem with all of this, with The Big Sad as Gordon had nicknamed it so many years ago in a hospital bed, was that it seemed just as real as John, perhaps more so. _It_ controlled _him_ , not the other way around. He had to run from it as far and fast as he could, but he'd never won any gold medals in sports for a reason – this wasn't something you could escape.

"Alternatively, you could try therapy," Scott had mentioned once, over a takeaway soda and a collection of burgers and fries scattered across the map between them, perched on the bonnet of a battered car, the night sky big and bright and vast.

John had laughed. "Do I look like the kind of person who would voluntarily talk about their feelings?"

Scott had stolen another fry and raised it in a toast. "Touché."

Of course, one semester later left John with no choice but to see a therapist, but that was an entire other story that he was unwilling to recollect, and also happened to be the same reason why he had The Agreement with Scott – that he was to speak up as soon as he noticed things were starting to get bad. Eh. They had history. Scott dealt with his demons far better than John ever had, but here they were and now was, well, _now_ , and John had to question at what point he could throw his hands up and have the world admit that he was a lost cause, because _dammit_ , he just kept coming back to this point, didn't he? Sprawled on a sofa. Trying not to be too much, but terrified of being too little.

And yet.

No one seemed to mind. They were just worried. They showed it in different ways. Alan was quiet, uncertain of his words but confident in his actions, sat on the carpet with his back to the sofa, arm draped over the edge of the cushions so that he could rest a hand on John's ankle. Gordon offered the popcorn bowl and replenished the water jug without prompting. Virgil put on a light, summertime, gentle movie, one that was brimming with hope and sun and stars and was more of a blanket to John's ears than visual entertainment. Virgil himself was relaxing on the other sofa, feet propped up on the chair-arm, sketchpad on his knees, pencils tucked behind his ears and in his pockets and charcoal skitter-scratching against worn paper. Grandma had retired to bed about an hour ago, but she'd pulled John aside in the kitchen, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and whispered promises that he'd needed to hear as badly as plants needed sunlight.

And then there was Scott, with whom John was sharing this sofa. His brother was studying designs for One's new drifting system, chin pillowed on a palm, elbow propped up on the sofa-arm, all faux-casual as if John weren't half-asleep across his knees – and yeah, John wasn't doing himself any favours there because he _never_ initiated physical contact unless he was a) in a really good mood or b) doing really _terribly,_ and everyone could guess which of the two categories he currently fell into.

His brain kept recycling that one thought. He'd started today floating in a sense of exhausted numbness because he couldn't see past the void to reach that golden hope that promised there was a _point_ to everything, to all the suffering and the pain and the effort it took to simply exist. Now he was here, almost overwhelmed with the sheer terror of impermanence and didn't that in itself make everything pointless and oh _god_ , people died and yeah, so it was selfish, sue him, but he couldn't imagine not being the one to die first because if he didn't then that meant he had to watch the others die and no, no, _no_ , he'd come too close to that too many times, and _fuck_.

"You look like you're considering the secrets of the universe," Virgil commented, mostly joking but his voice was tainted with concern, and Scott quietly clicked off his screen display as John tried to fixate on any one point, but streams of thought were running too fast, and he couldn't, so instead what came out was a choked whisper of,

"I think I killed Dad."

Alan practically launched into orbit. "What the _fuck_?"

For once, Scott didn't chastise him for cussing.

Gordon set the popcorn bowl back onto the table. "Um…" He looked to Virgil. "Should Alan and I… like… leave?"

"No," John answered at the same time as Scott. He reached out and clumsily patted Alan's head. "Y'all can stay. I'm just… thinking. Aloud. Sorry."

"Your thoughts are scary," Alan informed him, looking dangerously close to tears.

Aw, crap. Alan was like a golden retriever puppy in human form. Anyone who made Alan cry was a terrible person. John mentally threw himself out of the nearest airlock.

Virgil swung his legs down to sit upright. "Talk me through this train of thought, would you?"

"I would," John told him, "but it's not… it's like trying to jump from a moving train to a moving car. Everything's going too fast. You're asking to me explain one thought that sprung from thousands of different neurons firing and… the whole thing's just complete and utter _bullshit_."

Virgil set his hands in his lap. He kept shooting nervous glances at Scott, as if there was a whole other telepathic conversation going on there, which, knowing those two, was more probable than it should have been. "Can you try?" he asked.

John fumbled with the drawstring of his hoodie. "I have eyes on everything. That's my entire job. I monitor the status of the situation and the escalating risks so I can tell you when to get out, where it's safe to tread and so on and on and on. I have all the information, so all I have to do is make that judgment call. Do you know what I didn't do? I didn't tell Dad to abandon that rescue. I didn't tell him the rocket was going to blow. I didn't realise in time."

"You can't blame yourself for not being superhuman," Gordon said quietly.

"Why not? Other people do. Do you have any idea how many people call up, who've lost loved ones, and blame us? There was nothing we could have done, but they need someone to blame, so they choose us. And when they hear my voice, they don't see _me_ , they don't see one person, they see _International Rescue_."

Scott's voice was dangerously flat. "You told me you didn't listen to those messages."

"Some of them get through the filters. I have to listen in case it's an SOS." John tucked the drawstring into the corner of his mouth to keep from biting his nails. "It's just one thought amongst many," he reminded them gently.

Scott shook his head. "But it's a dangerous thought. Besides," he deliberately stared at the carpet as he voiced his next words, "if we're thinking like that, then… technically… Dad wasn't even supposed to be on that rescue."

John pushed his face into the cushions and tried to ignore the growing nausea, because yeah, he'd known that the entire time, he'd witnessed Scott play the blame game for months on end, but to be reminded of it in this context…

"I didn't know that." Gordon sounded very small.

And that just brought everything into shockingly cold clarity because Scott would never have admitted it all in front of Gordon and Alan unless he had no other choice, meaning he was so desperate to prove John wrong that he was willing to risk _that_ thought, the _bad_ thought, the _what if_ and the _if you could go back and switch_ and all the bullshit and _Christ_. John pushed himself on one elbow and stole a glance at Alan and promptly felt his heart shatter because Alan should never look like that, not the silent crying, the kind where you stifle yourself because your pain causing others pain is the greatest sin of all, which only causes _more_ pain, and oh, hello, welcome to the vicious circle.

"Scott." Virgil's voice was strangled. It hit John that _none of them had known_.

Somehow Scott managed to keep his voice steady, even inject a bit of brightness into it. "So if you're going to go down that train of thought, then we're both equally to blame. Are you cool with that?"

"You're a manipulative bastard," John shot back.

"Uh huh. I'll take that, if it stops you thinking like an idiot." Scott caught John's shoulder and squeezed, until John looked at him. "We ran over the data a hundred times. There was no way you could have known those engines were about to explode."

"Yeah, I know." And he _did_ know. He just couldn't… well, logic was escaping him at the moment. "I mean it. I'm not walking around blaming myself. But everything's mixed up and I'm thinking all sorts of crap right now."

There was a soft rustling from the other end of the sofa as Alan hopped up and curled into the corner. Virgil quietly left the room and after a moment's hesitation, Gordon followed him. The TV stood on mute.

"From nothing to everything," John murmured.

Scott caught the words with a sharp look, remembering one of their many conversations in relation to this topic over the years. "Feeling too much?"

"You really want to know what I'm thinking right now?" John tilted his head to Alan, ever-so-slightly, barely noticeable. Scott narrowed his eyes and nodded, which, you know, fair enough, because if Alan was mature enough to fly into disaster zones then he was mature enough to handle a conversation about mental health and rapidly spiralling thoughts.

Virgil and Gordon were hovering outside the doorway. They were close enough to hear everything that was said, but the fact they weren't coming back in was proof that someone had cracked. Probably Virgil.

John tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "I'm thinking that death is inevitable, and that the impermanence of human life makes everything we do pointless. Then on the other hand, I'm also thinking that you are all too important to me to consider losing you, only, you know, there's that thought about certain death again, so I don't really have a choice about the whole thing unless I'm gone first."

Scott studied him for a moment. "That sounds dangerously similar to a conversation we had a few years back."

"I know."

"Should I be concerned?"

"More so than you are already?"

Scott snapped. "Answer the damn question, John."

"No." John swallowed, and tried again, his voice a little stronger this time. "No. I feel shit and I'm thinking shit, but not… not like in college. Not like back then. I'm good. Or at least I will be. Right now, I'm just… spiralling. I need time, and I need you to be there, but it'll pass. You and I both know it'll pass."

"Okay." Scott let out a shaky breath. "Okay," he repeated, and released his tight grip on John's shoulder in favour of reaching across the sofa and ruffling Alan's hair. "Hey, rocket-kid. Check in. How are you doing?"

Alan gestured wordlessly to John.

"Hey," John protested. "Don't use me as an excuse to get out of talking."

Alan swiped tears away angrily. "I don't like being helpless. I want to help you, and there's nothing I can do other than sit and wait for you to feel better, and it's not even like you've got the flu, I can't give you meds to help… well, I mean…"

"Nope." Scott cut that line of thought off before it could get any further. "Trust us. We're not going down that road again."

John winced. "Antidepressants and me don't really mix." He caught Alan's wrist and guided his brother's hand down before Alan could join the nail-biting party. "In all seriousness, you do need to answer us honestly when we ask you how you're doing, because I'm not in the best place right now, and I'll admit that, but it puts a lot of pressure on you too."

"Is this why you normally hide away on Five for weeks on end without any explanation?" Alan asked, the clues falling into place. "Because you're feeling bad and you don't want to put us through that?"

"I am _so_ done," Scott whispered. "Unbelievable. He puts the pieces together in less than ten seconds. It took me _months_ to figure that out."

"Yes, but Alan's got more than one brain cell." John dodged Scott's elbow with a half-smile. He rolled onto his back and pillowed his head on Scott's knees. "Right. I'm done. Too much talking. Quiet time now. I'm fucking _exhausted_."

"Swear jar," Scott told him, trying desperately to hold back a smug grin.

John flipped him off. Alan's resulting laughter was the best thing he'd heard all day.

Like anything toxic, thoughts had a habit of poisoning you if you kept them locked away inside your own head for too long. He _was_ exhausted now, but it was the physical, emotional kind, not the soul-heavy tiredness that had plagued him for the past two weeks. He stretched out his legs and let Alan tap anxiety-driven energy out against his ankles, reaching for the remote to unmute the TV.

Virgil crept back in remarkably quietly and sat down on the floor, back resting against the sofa, sketchpad abandoned. His gaze was fixed on the TV. Then, wordlessly, he lifted a hand, palm-up. John caught it and let Virgil take a moment to reassure himself that yeah, John wasn't doing too good right now, but he wasn't going anywhere.

"Welcome to quiet time," Scott announced as Gordon reappeared in the doorway.

Gordon faltered, confusion flitting across his features before he shrugged and belly-flopped into the space next to Alan, almost kicking Scott in the face. "One word?"

"That was two words," John noted dryly.

Gordon flicked him. "Chocolate." He dropped a family-size packet of Cadbury's milk chocolate onto John's stomach and sat back, obnoxiously smug.

Alan perked up. His face was still damp, eyes red, but he couldn't help but smile as he took a piece of chocolate and settled back into the curve of the cushions. Virgil made grabby hands. John smacked him on the head with the bar but passed him some anyway.

He drifted again. But this time it was warm, and it was safe, and he wasn't going anywhere – how could he be, when he was caught in the gravity between the stars and the planets? Long after the movie had ended, with Alan and Gordon in a tangled heap of blankets and cushions, deep in sleep, Virgil snoring away on the floor, John felt a tap on his shoulder.

"What?" he whispered.

Scott tilted the screen of his phone to show him a message from EOS.

_Figured it out. Not a meteor, but a moon. Shines just as brightly as the sun, and even if they dim sometimes, the light always returns. Moons protect planets; brave and loyal and ready to face down the empty void of space. Or, as you would say, ready to face down zero._

John smiled. He took the phone from Scott wordlessly and typed back, _you took that very seriously_.

_Moons are very important,_ EOS replied. _Humans looked to their moon and dreamt and wondered and believed._

"Space metaphors?" Scott asked quietly in fond bemusement.

"Hmm," John agreed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He'd got through today. He'd get through tomorrow. This would pass. It may come back, but that would also pass. "You good?"

Scott switched his phone off. "Eternally worried about all of you."

"Ah, so the standard."

"Exactly." Scott exhaled. "You?"

John thought of planets and stars and moons and meteors and an entire universe of fear and beauty and impossibilities. "I'm alive. Tomorrow's well on its way."

"Is that enough?"

He smiled in the face of the darkness. "For now, yes."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Hey you. Yes, you, reading this right now. You're doing great. I believe in you.


End file.
